The weight of grief is enormous. A heavy burden that never quite leaves one in peace. Heartfire has become far too familiar with its weight, though she has stubbornly refused to bend beneath it. Her own sorrow remains contained, her tears unshed beneath the iron control she has imposed upon herself. Instead, she has redirected her own sadness into anger and purpose. An endless fuel that burns through her. That had brought her to this meadow.
But the young woman’s face breaking beneath the heaviness of her words puts another chip in the steadfast armor Heartfire had wrapped about herself. To see that grief reflected in another soul is harder than she could have expected. Especially when reflected in the face of the weapon that had slain her child. It is easy, in that moment, to see that Ajatar is far more than a weapon. Her own mother uses her so easily as such, never once stopping to consider the soul beneath.
Heartfire, for all her indifferent demeanor and ruthless motivation, is not in fact heartless. If she could believe that Ajatar had acted on her own volition, it would have been far easier to hate her. But she had been used as poorly as her son had.
Despite her anger, despite the fact she should hate this woman, she cannot. Instead, she shifts closer. Gently, she reaches out, brushing her muzzle along the dark skin of her neck before drawing her close, offering comfort. She could not pretend indifference in that moment, no matter how much she might wish to.
She allows her her grief, remaining silent as she presses against her in surprisingly warm solidarity. Finally, after a lengthy silence, she murmurs softly, “I think you do yourself a disservice, taking the blame on yourself.”
i see your sins
and i want to set them free
